


In the Forest there was a Tower, and in the Tower there was a Wolf

by Gla22



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fairytale format, Gen, Includes mentions of canon deaths, this goes out to the four people who love both Magnus and Queen's Thief I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:56:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29975646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gla22/pseuds/Gla22
Summary: A young man is lost in the woods.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Alice "Daisy" Tonner
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	In the Forest there was a Tower, and in the Tower there was a Wolf

Once, there was a forest, and in the forest there was a tower, and in the tower there was a wolf. On the edge of the forest, there was a village, and the story the villagers told was this: that the tower had been built for a goddess, though which was lost to time, that it was full of treasures, and that the wolf was its guardian - any who could pass the wolf and enter the tower would be given a gift by the goddess. 

This was not as simple as just sneaking past a wolf, of course. The tower itself was said to vanish once one lost sight of it in the trees. Once one left the road, the forest was plagued by bandits, who were sure to rob any lone traveler who had managed to gain anything of value.

Reaching the tower was difficult, but not impossible. In the village lived a young man named Jonathan, who grew up hearing stories from his grandmother of those who had received the goddess’ gifts, and what had befallen them. There were a few who had asked for gold, of course, and some of them had even returned - though without the gold, which bandits had relieved them of between the tower and the village. There was Sasha, who had thought to bypass the bandits by asking for the gift of prophecy instead. When the bandits came upon her, and were angered by her lack of gold, she had cried out “I am going to die”, and then she did. Timothy, who asked for a sword that would kill with the smallest cut; with it he fought his way out of the forest and avenged the murder of his brother. He nicked himself cleaning the weapon afterwards, and as he succumbed to rot, the sword crumbled to rust. Melanie, who asked for a necklace that made her voice ring clear at any distance, only to tuck it away in her home once the reality of hearing words said to lovers quoted between strangers set in. Jonah had taken an amphora that never emptied, containing a drought that preserved him from age and illness. When the bandits stopped him as he left the tower he boasted to them that he would never die. The bandit’s king cut his throat, and when he fell, the amphora smashed. And then there was Peter - no one knew what he had asked for, or if he had even reached the tower, only that he had set out for it alone and never been seen again. 

She told him these things so that he would stay away from the tower and its goddess, he was sure, though she needn’t have bothered; Jonathan had no particular desire for gold or glory even apart from fables. He had learned the basics of lyre carving from his parents and honed the craft with advice from his grandmother, whose hands refused to hold tools but who had forgotten more than most masters ever learned. His long, clever fingers played beautifully and carved even more so, and he was happy with the work he carried to the town on the other side of the forest for their markets each month. His grandmother clearly feared he would go like his parents, to ask the goddess in the tower for divine insight into his craft, but for Jonathan improving his skill by his own hand was a point of pride.

What’s more, her stories bothered him much less than his dreams. Ever since he was small Jonathan had been woken regularly by all sorts of nightmares: drowning, crushing, fire, the feeling of cold earth between his fingers and fog in his lungs as he crouched in the dark and a howling drew closer. 

One night, when he found himself in the later sort of dream, the wolf found him. His dream-self braced, waiting to be torn apart, but instead the wolf tilted its head at him, and sat, and told him that she had once been a woman, to whom great violence had been done. She had gone to the goddess and wished for vengeance, and the goddess had given her sharp teeth and a strong jaw and implacable swiftness with wish to avenge herself. She had, she told him, letting her jaws hang wide with her black lips pulled back to show ivory teeth and her red tongue lolling in a disconcerting imitation of a laugh, breath hot and moist and stinking on his face, and then Jonathan woke up. 

From then on, he dreamed of the wolf in between his nightmares, and he thought little more of her than the others. It was nice, he supposed, to have a dream that didn’t pain him, and some nights the wolf told him more - that she was bound to the temple and the goddess within, about petitioners who had taken gifts and those who had failed to reach the tower at all, and eventually, that the goddess forbade her from attacking anyone who came in peace and so all one needed to do to enter the tower was lay down their weapons and turn their back to the wolf. Jonathan dwelt as little on this information as he had on the rest of his dreams, as he still had little desire to enter the tower. What would he ask the goddess for, anyway? A divinely sharp set whittlers’ knives? Hardly legendary. 

It was in this frame of mind Jonathan found himself on the road back from market one humid spring day, humming to himself as he went. It had been a good day for him, and he had nothing to carry back but the favorite lyre he played to draw in customers and a modest pocket of silver. He must have stayed at market longer than usual, though, because the sun was low in the sky and the clouds rolling over her face eased him in to an early twilight. What’s more, if he narrowed his eyes at the horizon he could see the shadow of rain below the clouds - he would need to leave the road and seek shelter, or stay and risk wood worp on top of his own soaking. He hesitated for a moment, but reasoned that if bandits did happen upon him he could perhaps bribe them with the day’s earnings and anyway he was looking for a nearby shelter; he wouldn’t be in the open for long. 

Unfortunately, Jonathan was not much of a woodsman, and it took him longer than he had thought to find a shelter. The light failed him as the trees grew thicker, his shoes sank into an ever-thicker carpet of moss, and the irrational fear of being watched prickled on the back of his neck. Finally, just as the darkness closed around him and rain turned from a mist to a downpour, he threw himself into an abandoned shack with a roof that may have once been thatch but was now mostly moss and found himself face to face with the largest wolf he had ever seen. 

He froze in place, heart in his throat, eyes wide. The wolf watched him with eyes the color of the sun, black nose twitching; if he were standing it would be waist-height but crouched as he was it towered over him. Its teeth were as long as his fingers and its paws as big as his open hand, its nails were as thick as his chisels, and he was suddenly sure that if it opened its mouth wide it could close its jaws around his head - never mind his throat. The animal musk of it filled the small space, and even as the rain began to pound the shack in earnest Jonathan wondered wildly how he had missed it from outside. 

Still, as it stared at him, Jonathan knew better than to run. If he ran, it would chase him as wolves must, but if it wasn’t hungry… perhaps they could shelter together. Slowly, deliberately, Jonathan pressed his hands into the dirt floor of the shack and turned his back to the wolf. 

He felt it step towards him, equally slowly, and the heat as its breath rustled the hairs on the back of his neck. Then, “Your parents were welcome here, once,” in a voice he had heard before. Jonathan spun back to the wolf to see it still facing him, but now instead of a shack he found himself looking in to a large round room carved entirely of dark stone with a staircase spiraling up the wall - the base of a tower. Before he could gather himself entirely, the wolf turned and began to climb, and he found himself following before he could consider whether this was the wisest choice. 

As he and the wolf climbed the spiraling stairs, they passed room after room of treasure - gold, of course, and gems, armor and weapons of all types, pottery, and once or twice an instrument that Jonathan’s eyes wouldn’t slide away from until they had climbed above them altogether. He didn’t dare stop until they reached the top of the stairs, and an open room with a (rather hairy) bench, a chair made of fine wood, a silk-sheeted bed, and a carved stone fireplace. Jon hadn’t realized how damp he’d become wandering the woods until the relief of the fire hit him, and he removed his cloak gratefully before pulling out his lyre, wiping the excess moisture from it, and setting it close enough to dry but far enough not to crack. If he was going to meet a goddess, he may as well be dry. He straightened, and sighed, and turned back to the room. The wolf had settled on what he was fairly sure was her bench, and he was struck once again by her size. “What - um - what… happens now?” he asked. _Where is the goddess?_ went unsaid. 

The wolf yawned, gaping, and licked her black lips, and said “She’ll be here soon.”

Jonathan stood by the fire a moment longer, fingers flexing. He ached to pick up the lyre, but couldn’t bear the possible damage to it, so instead he folded himself on to the rug before the fire and began to hum, tapping his finger in time. The wolf stretched one leg out behind her, and lowered her head to her paws, and her gold eyes drooped in the firelight. 

He wasn’t sure how long he had been there when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He leapt to his feet and brushed himself off. Should he kneel? Prepare an offering? He felt sure he should do something, but adrift as to what, so he settled for standing upright and trying to look suitably deferential, which wasn’t hard. The woman crested the stairs, and if Jon had doubted she was a goddess, he didn’t now. She was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed from head to toe in a white that Jon had only seen in distant mountain snows. Jon couldn’t tell what the fabric was, precisely, only that it floated behind her as though she moved through water. Her dress was held at her waist by a belt of gold, and its broad sleeves draped down to her wrists. Her hair seemed to be braided back, and covered in the same white fabric held in place by a small gold crown. Jon only caught a glimpse of her eyes, as golden as the wolf’s and preternaturally steady, before starting at the realization that he was making eye contact with a goddess and looking down. Her sandals were gold as well, and their straps stood out against her dark skin. 

“I see I have a guest,” she said, in a tone Jonathan might under different circumstances have described as wry. 

Jonathan nodded jerkily. Then he wondered whether it was disrespectful not to speak, and he said, “Yes. I - um - I - thank you. I don’t mean to intrude, but there was the storm, and I - I was invited?”

“Invited,” said the goddess, flatly, and though Jon didn’t dare meet her eyes again he got the distinct impression she was laughing at him. “Well, you’re certainly here now, and I assume you know what that means - you may claim one of the treasures.” 

Jonathan nodded again, and fidgeted, and finally looked up. The goddess was watching him, but she didn’t seem angered or even annoyed. He looked at her and felt himself blurt out, “Does anyone who takes the gold get to keep it? Does everyone who takes a weapon die for it?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jonathan saw the wolf’s eyes crack open again. She and the goddess watched him for a moment, and then Jonathan thought he saw a spark of warmth in the Goddess’ gold eyes. “Everyone thinks they’ll be the exception,” she said.

“I… um. Can I have some time to think on it?” Jonathan said, finally. 

The goddess’ mouth twitched, and her eyes twinkled in the firelight. “Of course,” she said. “You may stay until morning.”

Jon breathed a sigh of relief as subtle as he could make it. He reached for his cloak, suddenly exhausted, and prepared to settle back in front of the fire. 

“Jonathan,” the goddess said, and he jumped back as though the cloak had burned him. “The bed will be empty tonight. Please don’t sleep on the floor.”

The goddess swept around and started down the stairs. Before he gathered himself, she was gone - alone with the wolf again. “I didn’t tell her my name,” he said to the wolf, because with the goddess gone his options were the wolf or his lyre. 

The wolf watched him. He knew she had spoken earlier, but she wasn’t speaking now. What she did do was stand, her great furry bulk dominating the room, and pad over to the chair by the fire, which Jonathan saw now had a tray spread between its arms. Steam rose from a cup, and a bowl, and Jonathan realized all at once how hungry he was. He took a tentative step towards the chair. To his surprise, the wolf only sniffed at the tray, then huffed and circled back to her bench. Uncertain, Jon looked between her and the tray, hunger warring with consternation. 

“Well?” said the wolf, and Jonathan jumped in spite of himself. “She didn’t leave that here for me.”

Jonathan hesitated a moment longer, then reasoned rejecting the hospitality of the goddess was surely ill-advised and descended on the tray. He ate with the wolf’s eyes on him, and could not have told you what was on the tray, beyond that it warmed him from the tips of his ears to the floor. The young man sighed, straightened, and looked at the bed. It seemed too fine to touch, but… he was invited, wasn’t he? He thought back to the goddess’ words, and her face, and thought that she did not seem to want to trap him, and he sat on the bed. 

Sleep began to settle over his bones as soon as he touched the sheets. Still, he undressed, and as he did so he said to the wolf, “How did the lyres get here?”

“Gifts, mostly,” she said, “Dedications to the goddess.”

“I see,” said the young man as he slipped between the sheets. “And were you really a woman?”

Stretched out, the wolf was easily longer than the young man was tall, and she said, “I suppose I was. I looked like one, anyway. Who knows what I am now?”

* * *

  
When the young man woke again, the tower was bright; he did not remember the stone walls as dazzling, but here they were. He lay there, for a moment, in perfect suspension, before he remembered who would be coming - if she had not already - and sprang to his feet. He gathered his clothes around him, and no sooner had he straightened them than he heard footsteps on the stairwell. 

As the goddess entered his sight again, he reached instinctively for his lyre, and ran his fingers over the dry wood. She greeted him, and asked him again for his decision. 

“I have given it some thought,” he said, and paused. 

Again, he caught a flash of warmth. “To refuse is also a choice.”

“Of course,” said Jonathan, knowing that to refuse the gift of a goddess would be unwise indeed. “I thank you again for your hospitality, goddess, and I have made my choice. I will take the wolf.”

If the goddess was surprised, she didn’t show it. “If you choose the wolf, once she leaves the tower she will not be in my power nor yours. She may choose to eat you.” 

“She may,” said the young man, “but I don’t believe that she will.” 

And so Jonathan and the wolf left the tower, the young man strumming his song and the wolf keeping the bandits at bay with her grin.


End file.
